


Still Learning How to Read

by weak_brooke



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Domestic, M/M, Sad Fluff, and isaac tries his best to help him, basically stiles is a sad baby, i love these babies, i think, im not sure idk i tried!!, mild angst??, this is like sad fluff??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 03:51:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4591878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weak_brooke/pseuds/weak_brooke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles felt like his spine was cracking, his pages being drowned in a sadness he didn’t want to comprehend. But Isaac never faltered, never skipped over a word that lined his boy’s skin.</p>
<p>“I love you,” he whispered softly, tracing the outline of Stiles’ lips, the gentle slope of his nose, the constellation of moles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Learning How to Read

Two-hundred and eighty-four.

His fingers, cracked and burning, pale and itching, dug into the bedsheets, chewed nails catching on loose threads. His spine curved downward, inward, and his lips twisted into pale misery. Red vines crept into his eyes, once amber, and maybe he looked like he was withering away. Maybe he was. Maybe he didn’t know.

Those eyes –glassy, unfocused– were locked onto the alarm clock on the nightstand, but Isaac knew that look – knew those irises and knew they were unseeing, blurry. Stiles didn’t watch the clocks anymore, didn’t need to know how long he’d been in his position; the dull aches of his calves and the low rumble of his stomach told him enough.

Triangles of light filtered into the room, shadows of the sun casting burgundies and oranges across Stiles’ flesh. Isaac’s fingers curled into a fist.

Stiles’ mind had abandoned him in the bedroom, however; his daydreaming led him to his father’s house, to Scott and the sandbox, to the grave of his late mother. Bubbled up memories flitted around behind his eyes, flawless and pure: his father pouring his second cup of coffee for the morning, Mrs. McCall fussing over her kinky hair, his mother tucking a flyaway behind her ear, his ear –

Stiles drew his eyes closed tight, a long-suppressed sigh escaping his chapped lips and heavy tongue. A shuffling had interrupted his thoughts, and he had a sneaking suspicion of what it was.

The sudden pressure of skin against his cheek was equal parts startling and reassuring. Cracking his eyes back open, Stiles stared straight into the gaze of a boy he both did and did not know. Isaac was crouching down before him, eye-level with the bed, his arm carefully stretched out to caress Stiles’ jaw. As the pad of his thumb grazed across Stiles’ chin, he bit down on his bottom lip.

Maybe the blonde boy’s eyes flickered golden. Maybe Stiles wasn’t sure.

Three-hundred and twelve, Stiles reminded himself.

“Stiles,” Isaac prompted gently, a softness reserved for the confines of their home, the confines of each other’s arms. Anxious blue eyes locked onto indifferent hazel ones, and he began to worry at his lip, ignoring the taste of copper that seeped in between his teeth. “Stiles, babe, why don’t you get out of that bed and come for a walk with me? We could go get something to eat,” he sighed, “or go to your dad’s. Whatever you want.”

“’M tired,” Stiles mumbled, voice low and cracking from disuse.

“No, you’re not.” It was a statement, slow and almost accusatory. But Isaac’s eyes were the sort of soft that made Stiles want to curl in on himself, and his skin flared up, hot with embarrassment at how easily Isaac could read him. If Stiles was a tattered, forgotten book, then Isaac was the sole translator.

Stiles felt like his spine was cracking, his pages being drowned in a sadness he didn’t want to comprehend. But Isaac never faltered, never skipped over a word that lined his boy’s skin.

“I love you,” he whispered softly, tracing the outline of Stiles’ lips, the gentle slope of his nose, the constellation of moles.

Stiles was being torn in two, his heartstrings snapping one by one and his stomach thrumming uncomfortably. He longed for the kind words of his mother, the prominent laugh lines on her young face. For a second, he could have sworn he could smell the perfume she wore on Sundays, could hear her squeaky laugh.

Then it was gone, and his eyes finally focused on the boy before him. The boy who was allowed to see him like this when no one else was, not even his dad or Scott – the boy who could heal his wounds with a simple touch.

“Isaac.” The second the name left his mouth, Stiles could feel the hot wetness pricking at his eyes. He blinked furiously, turning his head into the pillow to let out a shaky sob. His breathing was hard and shallow, his throat straining as it closed up.

Three-hundred and seventy-seven.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Isaac’s assurance came quick, no hint of his usual hesitation lining his tone. Then, in a motion that was both careful and practiced, he slipped into the bed with Stiles and pulled him close. Long arms enveloped Stiles, and he curled into the resonating heat of this boy, his boy, finding refuge in the crook of Isaac’s neck. Pale fists grasped desperately at Isaac’s shirt, and Stiles concentrated on regulating his breathing and counting Isaac’s heartbeat as it hummed beneath his fingertips.

One, two, three.

They laid like that for what seemed to be an infinity of exhales and numbers, but maybe Stiles would be okay. Isaac’s arms tightened around the boy’s torso, his lips pressing feather-light kisses to Stiles’ dull hair. He didn’t speak again, because he knew Stiles needed time to heal himself, needed time to focus on the present and not the past.

Stiles silently thanked him, mouthing the words at his neck. Sometimes he needed this, needed Isaac to say nothing at all – to read his pages and understand, to hold his hand through words and sighs without mentioning the numbers, the sicknesses, the past.

Maybe Stiles was already okay. Maybe it was because of Isaac.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first teen wolf fic! i'm not sure how i feel about it, but i definitely want to write more in the future! send me any prompts or suggestions! thanks for reading <3


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